


this love is difficult but it's real (it's a love story, baby, just say yes)

by safeandsound13



Series: and all at once, you are the one i've been waiting for (king of my heart, body and soul) [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Long-Distance Relationship, Modern AU, Pining, Princess Clarke, Royalty, long distance, mostly fluff i guess, they really miss each other?, wow its a tag!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-20 05:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: “If I don’t see you again—” he rasps all of a sudden, brow furrowed, because he’s Bellamy, and he wouldn’t be if he wasn’t so dramatic. If she lets this go on any longer, he might cry. She loves him for that, but then she might cry, too, and she doesn’t cry.She shakes her head, choking back an amused laugh as she leans up to kiss him. When she pulls back, she searches his face, trying to memorize every freckle before running her finger over his forehead to smooth it out. She presses one more peck to his cheek, just for good measure. “You will.”OR:RAVEN [16:41]how cute, your first public scandal<3OR:Clarke, Bellamy and the—brace yourselves for the barf-inducing alliteraton—road to ther royal reunion.





	this love is difficult but it's real (it's a love story, baby, just say yes)

**Author's Note:**

> *kendrick lamar voice* royalty royalty royalty
> 
> hi. this is a continuation of ‘you’ve got the juice (that’s why i keep pressin’ ya)’, could be read on his own… I guess! this is complete trash but y'all have kisha (@toomuchtroubletbh) to thank for me even uploading this because i could not have pulled through on this without her encouragement. as always, don't take it too seriously and enjoy. 
> 
> song in title is love story from the woman, the legend, the myth miss t swift herself. took some creative liberty w it  
> credits for the photo in the story go to silverxstardust on tumblr.

 

Raven highfives her as soon as she walks into the latest Infamous Jonty Party at Sigma Phi Delta. It took a little longer than usual to sneak out because Mr. Miller insisted on breathing down her neck as she wrote her weekly email to her mother, even though she suspected her guards knew all too well where she spent most of her Friday nights. They weren’t that dim. “Nice.”

 

Clarke scowled. “Are you commenting my appearance or has Octavia already discussed my sexlife with everyone here?” Her red lace camisole and ripped skinny jeans were cute as hell plus made her butt look extra good so she deserved to be ogled at, but there was a glint in Raven’s eyes she recognized all too well.

 

“Yeah, she used Jasper’s megaphone and everything,” the brunette jokes, without skipping a beat. At least Clarke hopes it’s a joke. Then Raven smirks, slow and deliberate. “You do look really hot, but also congrats on fucking the original Blake.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, pursing her lips as she exhales loudly through her nose. Then, she changes the subject, ever so subtle, “Speaking of fucking, there’s someone who thinks they’re really bad in bed because you ignored him afterwards.”

 

She winches, taking a large gulp out of her customized Green solo cup. They’re not only a bright neon-green, they have name GREEN plastered on it in black sharpie, because they’re Monty’s personalized concoctions; a disgusting but guaranteed buzz-giving surprise in every cup. “Wells?”

 

Surprised, Clarke raises her eyebrows. “Yeah, how did you know?”

 

“He’s the only one I’ve been actively ignoring,” she explains herself. Defensively, she adds, “Not because I’m a bitch. He got all sweet and soft after and I had to bolt. Figured it was easier.”

 

“That, and his dad is like the state senator,” Octavia drunkenly points her own Green solo cup towards Raven, blue liquid sloshing over the edge and dripping down her hand, hooking an arm around the brunette’s neck lazily. Clarke doesn’t know where she suddenly came from or how she hadn’t noticed. Maybe she was better off with her guards by her side.

 

“You know I don’t care about all that shit,” Raven sneers, scowling as she crosses her arms over her chest. Guilt overcomes Clarke, because when it comes to the important things, these are honestly the least judgemental people she’s ever met, and she’s still lying to them about who she is.

 

She had a short and tense conversation with Mr. Sinclair earlier. He was less scary than Mr. Miller—even if they were both sweethearts who would lay down their lives for her—and he let her call him Jacapo every once in awhile. She told him her identity was accidentally discovered but since the school year was coming to an end, she asked him not to inform her mother immediately. She would do so herself, and her mother could decide the consequences.

 

The truth is going to come out sooner or later, and she’d rather they hear it from her. It might help, with the guilt, too.

 

“I have to tell you guys something,” Clarke blurts out before she can change her mind, gulping the rest of Octavia’s cup down and discarding it on the nearest flat surface. Yikes.

 

They blink at her in confusion and the blonde’s eyes dart around nervously. She can’t tell them here, that’s just dumb. Anyone could overhear. Even if they’re all wasted, she can’t risk it.

 

She grabs Raven’s hand, figuring Octavia is still attached to her neck so she’ll follow automatically, dragging them to the nearest bathroom. Two people are making out on top of the toilet bowl, but Raven just scowls at them and they quickly scramble away.

 

Octavia’s eyes are a little glazy as she props herself up against the door. “What was so important?” She cocks an eyebrow suspiciously, then gasps, “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”

 

“That’s…” Clarke shakes her head, not sure how to continue as she pinches the bridge of her nose. It’s been barely 48 hours since she made a move on the brunette’s brother. “That’s not how sex works.”

 

“Ignore her,” Raven cuts it, tightening her ponytail before crossing her arms over her chest, leaning back against the washbasin. She can always count on Raven to get straight to the point. “What’s up?”

 

“Remember what I told you, a few weeks back?” Her frown only deepens, so Clarke adds, “When we were marathoning Black Mirror and I showed you all those pictures of me?”

 

“Yes,” she answers warily, then slowly the corners of her mouth turn up. “Best prank ever.” She snorts, turning towards a very confused Octavia. “Clarke told me she was a _princess_. Even made up an entire country and everything.”

 

Why does her life never work out the way she wants it to? She was either excellent at faking not being a princess, or she wasn’t a believable one to begin with.

 

The latina smiles brightly at the memory, turning back to an uncomfortable Clarke with a mischievous glint in her eyes as she folds her hands together pleadingly. “Please tell me who helped you with the photoshop. Was it Maya? I want to post a picture on Instagram of me as an astronaut so badly. It’ll wipe that smug ass smirk off Wick’s face for once in his life.”

 

(Kyle Wick, Raven’s arch nemesis. They had a one night stand, and then he wanted more—because, and she quotes, _of course he does I’m awesome_ —but the brunette wasn’t into it. His ego was bruised so badly, he spread around a rumour Raven gave him chlamydia. Octavia slashed his tires five times in a row and Clarke called in a favor and anonymously got him on the no-fly list. It was hard enough being a female mechanical engineering student without that misogynist slandering her name for no good reason.)

 

Octavia smiles, dopey, at first, but it fades at the look on Clarke’s face. “Wow. You were… not joking?”

 

She shakes her head, pressing a hand to her forehead as she collects all the courage inside of her. Clearing her throat, “My name isn’t Clarke Lockhart. It’s her royal highness Clarke Griffin, Princess of Arkadia, Duchess of Mecha, heir apparent, first in line for the throne.”

 

Raven just chokes on an incredulous laugh. When Clarke doesn’t falter, she scoffs in disbelief. “Arkadia is a real place?” That’s what’s important. Their lack of topographical skills.

 

“Yes,” she confirms, uneasily squirming under their gazes. “A whole country with people in it that technically have to answer to me.”

 

“You’re a princess?” Octavia repeats, dumbfounded, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. She’s looking a little green-ish. “Their princess?”

 

“Yes,” she swallows, tightly, picking at her nailpolish nervously. They’re still not really giving anything away about how they feel. Their stoney expressions are pretty much their natural resting faces so it’s hard to tell for sure.

 

Octavia’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, eyes narrowed together, a bead of sweat dripping down her temple. “Bellamy knows?”

 

“Yeah,” she admits, with a half-assed hidden smile. She doesn’t want to be _that_ girl, who grins just at the mention of her significant other. She has a reputation to uphold. “He figured it out on his own.”

 

The brunette scoffs, muttering something under her breath that sounds a whole lot like ‘nerd’ and like she’s about to re-chew her breakfast. Raven turns away to rest her hands on the counter and stare at her reflection in the mirror. Clarke flinches. “Look. I’m sorry I lied, but I had no choice.”

 

“You did have a choice,” Raven snaps, but her eyes soften as she turns back to them. It’s fair enough. In the end, Clarke did. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them, she just couldn’t back then. “I understand why you made it, though.” As her shoulders sag, she adds, halfheartedly, “Just wish you’d told me before your boyfriend. What ever happened to hoes before bros?”

 

“Technically I did, you know, tell you first.” Clarke shrugs faux-innocently. “You just didn’t believe me.”

 

“I’m way too drunk for this,” Octavia admits, dark eyeshadow smudged under her eyes like warpaint, and she steps closer to Clarke to link their arms together and lean her head on the blonde’s shoulder.

 

Clarke pats her cheek, tension leaving her body. Maybe this was only happening _because_ Octavia was drunk, but she’ll take it while she can. “A princess,” the brunette mutters to herself, incredibily unimpressed.

 

“What happens now?” Raven wonders, mimicking Octavia on Clarke’s other side, instead resting her cheek on top of the royal’s head since she has a few inches on her.

 

Clarke exhales deeply. She kind of doesn’t want to think about it. She isn’t ready to be back on survival mode. “I’m not exactly sure. It’s up to my mother. She’s the queen after all.”

 

“An actual queen is your mother,” Raven scoffs, tutting in disbelief. Her hair tickles Clarke’s face. “What the fuck.”

 

“It’s kind of how the whole being a princess thing works,” the blonde snorts, shaking her head lightly. “I think it’s pretty much the only requirement.”

 

Octavia burps, a strange look on her face as she swallows thickly. Clarke doesn’t ask, because she doesn’t want to know. That’s a Green Drink™ for you. She squeezes her eyes shut, voice hoarse when she speaks, “I feel like I’m in a Hallmark movie that’s so bad, it’s almost good.”

 

Raven laughs, obviously enjoying watching her friends suffer a little too much. “Dreams do come true.”

 

.

 

Clarke is incredibly hung-over the next day, but still manages to make it over to the Grounders’ soccer game bright and early, not looking like _complete_ shit. She slept over at the Blake residence because it meant she would get the most minutes of sleep out of the night as possible—but _mostly_ because she wanted to make sure Octavia wasn’t going to choke on her own vomit. Also, odds of sharing a shower with Bellamy in the morning? High, very high.

 

Except, he was gone before she and Octavia woke up and when the youngest sibling saw the disappointment on her face, she actually almost threw up again. “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?”

 

She’s wearing last night’s skinny jeans, paired with one of Octavia’s Grounders jerseys—that’s a little tight because _very different body types_ —but goes with the whole ‘no makeup, messy hair, just rolled out of bed’ look. She’s just talking to the tiny Social Work major when Bellamy jogs up to them, to where the two of them are seated on the front row. They were a little late that morning, so they weren’t there to help braid the kids’ hair. (Monty opted out because he had to check on his, and she quotes, algae farm, which according to Octavia is code for his marijuana plants.)

 

She smiles at him, and before she knows it, he’s pecking her on the mouth as a hello like it’s no big deal. She guesses it isn’t, but still flushes all over, feeling the glares of some very annoyed housewives burning into the back of her skull. She’s not very used to public displays of affection. She thinks the most that was usually allowed in Arkadia was holding someone’s hand (absolutely no clasping or intertwining of the fingers, just a light touch of fingers), and even that was frowned upon by some. Although she guesses it doesn’t really matter. Not here.

 

He’s discussing the training schedule with Aden’s father for a second, leisurely chewing gum and playing with her hand, before he turns back to them. He nods at someone else, and when Clarke turns her head to look over her shoulder and see who he was being so friendly with, it’s Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Miller. There’s a space in between the two guards that is just a little too big to be casual. Mr. Sinclair is wearing triangle-shaped sunglasses too small for his head and Mr. Miller is wearing a straw fedora to a soccer game for some reason.

 

She shoves Bellamy’s shoulder, mouthing a ‘ _what the fuck'_  and Octavia exhales loud and sharp, sliding her sunglasses back onto her nose, sitting down on the bench and excluding herself from the narrative. He chokes back a snort. “What’s up, princess?”

 

Her nostrils flare. Him and that stupid fucking nickname. “Did you introduce yourself to my—” she lowers her voice, conspiratorially, “ _bodyguards_?”

 

“Maybe so,” he answers, without skipping a beat. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he rests his hands on his sides. “Had to make sure, you know, _we_ weren’t doing anything that was endangering you.”

 

She rolls her eyes. Of course he talked to her bodyguards about _her safety_. Somehow it wouldn’t surprise her if they exchanged emails and escape plans. “You’re really dumb, you know that, right?”

 

“I second that,” Octavia deadpans, holding up a hand.

 

He wraps his arm around Clarke’s torso, pulling her into his chest as he uses his large hand to wipe her hair away from her forehead like she’s a puppy he’s petting. “Hey. Wow. You two are not allowed to gang up on me.”

 

“Thought the general consensus was do whatever the hell you want,” his sister mutters in response and he huffs, pulling on a strand of her hair playfully.

 

“No, you can graduate college, get a job and make enough money to move out. _Then_ you can do whatever the hell you want.”

 

Clarke has a hard time believing that, since he did just self-insert himself into _her_ safety plan even though it was made by professionals, and she’s a better adult than Octavia, but okay. He can’t _not_ care about other people.

 

“I have to go. I can’t leave the kids alone with Murphy too long or I’ll have child services on my ass,” he announces, leaning in to peck her on the mouth again. It’s all very PG-13 and parent-approved, which almost makes it worse. She can feel the jealousy radiate from behind her like the earth has grown an additional sun.

 

Murphy… Murphy is his assistant-coach who shows up when he feels like it. It might be part of his community service or something, Clarke can’t quite think straight at the moment, not when... He winks, patting her low on her side—which technically isn’t her ass but it overlaps so she gets to feel offended here—before booking out.

 

“God, I want to strangle him with that fucking whistle cord hanging around his neck like the dick he is.” Clarke falls down beside her friend, arms crossed over her chest petulantly as she watches him, or more like his ass, crossing the field and disappearing into the dressing rooms.

 

Octavia waves her arms around, panicked look on her pale face like she is a Sim who somehow can’t find it in herself to step over a plate. A literal fucking plate. “Jesus, too many details!”

 

Octavia didn’t murder her in the morning for lying to her, so that was good. Clarke was worried for the entire six minutes it took the other girl to remember the events that transpired the night before. Six painfully long minutes.

 

Clarke told the others—Monty, Jasper and Maya—straight after she spent thirty minutes holding Octavia’s hair back and trying not to stare down a toilet bowl. They took it well, cross-examined her about celebrities for a while before it was old news. Like, _yeah, this is my pal, Clarke, she’s a princess but she’s also a loser whose ass I’m gonna kick in beer pong_.

 

Monty seemed a little upset for a while there, but she promised setting him up on a blind date with Harper McIntyre—the girl who voices Princess Peach in all of the new Super Mario Games—and he practically promised her his firstborn after that. It’s a cheap bribe, since Monty’s awesome and Harper will definitely love him, but she never said she wasn’t going to hell.

 

Madi wants to sit with her at half-time, and her mother taps her on the shoulder and tells Clarke she and Bellamy are a really cute couple. Which is… New. People always had a lot to say about her relationships, but it usually wasn’t very positive, considering people judged her significant others based on the fact if they’d like them as their leader and not just as a normal person who has flaws and faults like any other. She likes it better, like this, she decides.

 

.

 

She postpones telling her mother all of three weeks, until Sinclair sends her a passive-aggressive voice message. Something about being able to hear her through the walls watching more episodes of Brooklyn 99 than was humanly healthy, and having yet to hear the Queen’s voice. He didn’t have to come for her like that, but he’s right.

 

It was probably time to tell her parents. She and Bellamy have been together for almost a month now and it’d been good. It took some getting used to, the whole relationship thing. They were both very stubborn; he had a temper, was arrogant at times, an unapologetic flirt; she was frequently entitled, impulsive and had a habit of bulldozing his opinions in favor of her own; he was a realist, she was a dreamer in most ways; he was an insufferable ass now and then, but even when he was, she still wanted him. Even if they’ve had eighteen (18!) arguments about money to date because he won’t let her pay for anything even though there’s literally a currency out in the world with her face on it.

 

She realized that if she wanted to pursue this any further, she could no longer hide the truth. Part of it had been self-protection; as long as she didn’t tell them, it wasn’t too real, didn’t feel to real. It had grown to be real regardless, and she couldn’t stay scared, scared of being weak. That wasn’t her. Or it was, because she _loved_ running away from her problems, seemed to be her number one hobby, but right now she didn’t want to. If she was going to be a real queen someday, she would have to stop running someday, too. That someday should be now.

 

(Also, Mr. Sinclair had conspired with Mr. Miller and together they’d combined their powers to form a very scary unity of stern gazes, showing her a phone with her mother’s number on it like it was the initiator of a bomb, threatening to push the button themselves. She’d promised them she’d do it today.)

 

It goes relatively well, at first. Her mother thinks her weekly phone call just came early and when Clarke mentions she’s met someone she really likes, she at least doesn’t hang up. She asks what his name is, even tentatively adds _her name_ which is progress, but before Clarke can answer her dad squeezes his way into the conversation.

 

Twenty minutes pass, fifteen of which are spent by her father telling her about his very exciting game of Solitaire and about his discovery of the grumpy cat meme five years late, and the blonde is getting more nervous by the second.

 

“Look,” she finally wedges herself in between her dad detailed descriptions of his favorite memes, keeping her voice steady. Even she doesn’t say it now, she might never will. “When I said I just like him, I lied. I’m dating him and I like him _a lot._ He knows who I am.” Hastily, she adds, “I didn’t tell him, he figured out on his own.”

 

“Who may this gentleman be?” Her dad asks calmly, after recovering from the disappointment of his own daughter interrupting him in the midst of a sentence like she _didn’t_ want to hear about his compilation of memes.

 

“We’ll have to do a thorough background check,” her mother sighs aggravatedly, and she realizes she was on speaker the whole time. Her mother just sat there and listened to her dad yap on and on about the crossover between grumpy cat and pepe the frog? So much for taking the easy way out and telling her dad first. “I take it you can be discreet until Indra gives the go-ahead? No official introductions to the public of course, but at least there will be no scandals to uncover if someone does spot you two prematurely.”

 

Indra is their head of security. It’s protocol for her to check any person her family officially hangs out with, make sure their intentions are pure and they’re not looking out to murder a world leader or rob the castle or anything. It makes sense. Even if her mother is practically suggesting in between the lines that won’t happen anyway, not formally at least, and she should hide him away until they inevitably break-up. Just in case the sunlight catches Bellamy when she takes him out on a rare outing, they’ll be prepared and it won’t hurt their image. Something like that.

 

Her father winces. “He’s an American?”

 

She gets his reservations, considering their latest president and all. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she acknowledges, “He’s half-filipino but technically yes.”

 

“I assume he’s not of blue blood?” Her mother declares, her dig anything but subtle. He’s mixed, and while that fact doesn’t bother her per se, it doesn’t fit into her future picture perfect royal family.

 

Jake treads on, careful. “Is he at least of nobility? An earl or baron would do at this point.”

 

At this point? They’ve barely given him a chance. Pretending like she’s brought the worst people imaginable home, and this is just the cherry on top? Did they think there was some dating app for royals? Clarke clenches her jaw, anger rising in her chest. They couldn’t just be happy for her before starting the third-degree?

 

Abby mutters something along the lines off, “At least it’s a guy,” and honestly? It had went relatively fine—no unforgivable offenses just yet, they were just caught off guard—up until the point where they revealed their inner bigots. In that moment, they choose to piss her off, and she can’t help but feel petty. They dug their own grave. She hangs up the phone without another word, chucking it against the nearest wall.

 

Mr. Miller grimaces, and shit, that might’ve been _his_ personal phone, “I take it that didn’t go well?”

 

She wants to be a queen her people deserve, because she _will_ be queen one day. She doesn’t want to be a cookie-cutter version of the queen her parents want her to be, because it’s expected of her. Expected because it’s been done that way since the stone ages. She wants to show her people she’s normal, like them. That she loves and dates and makes mistakes like any regular person. If it works out, great. If it doesn’t work out, well, that’s a shame, but not everything always does. In any case, it’ll remind her people she’s human and that she refuses to be anyone else but herself. That she is what she is, not just who she wants them to see. That she won’t hold an impossible standard for her citizens.

 

Fast-forward thirty minutes and Clarke has run a brush through her hair, thrown on a shirt that might not even be hers, and she’s in Bellamy’s bedroom. He just woke up, having finished a night shift earlier that day. He definitely looks the part, wearing his glasses, hair a little messy.

 

“Hey, just a quick question,” she pecks him on the mouth as soon as he emerges from the bathroom because he wanted to brush his teeth first. “You don’t want to assassinate me or like, overthrow my government, right?”

 

“No?” He questions, scratching the back of his head as he sits down beside her. He’s still a little sleep hazed, which makes the confusion on his face even cuter.

 

Ticking off the options on her fingers, she sits down on his bed. “And in your past, you haven’t killed anyone either? Or done anything else illegal? Have any illegitimate children walking around?”

 

“Just my credit-score,” he comments, dryly, amusement flickering in his eyes as he stops in front of her knees, their hands tangling together as he playfully pushes them. “And not that I know of.”

 

“Okay, great,” she smiles, leaning up to press her lips against his again. It’s all the background check she really needs. He won’t hurt her or her people, and he hasn’t hurt anyone else, the rest she can deal with. Besides, she trusts him.

 

He weaves his hand into her hair, pulling her closer as he deepens the kiss. She gets lost in it for a moment, then seems to remember why she came here to begin with. “Wait, wait,” she mutters against his mouth, hand blindly disappearing into her purse.

 

He chuckles as she pulls her phone out, settling down beside her. “What’s this about?”

 

She opens her mouth, then sighs, pressing her lips together. Her hand tightens around her phone as she searches his face. “Do you trust me?”

 

He tries hard to hide a smirk. “If you want to film us, I’m not quite sure we’re there ye—”

 

“Shut up,” she says, without any real heat. “Do you trust me?”

 

He tilts his head, eyes getting so impossibly soft something in her chest turns to mush. “Yeah, of course.”

 

“Well, with your permission, I’d like to upload—what the kids these days call—a selfie to our official Instagram page.”

 

“I figured you told your parents,” he snorts, leaning back on his hands as he examines her face, turning more serious. “Is this just to make a point?’

 

“No, I _want_ to show you off, if you’re okay with that,” she retorts, genuine as she reaches out to smooth a curl away from his face, finger trailing down his cheekbone, cheek, jaw. Feigning innocence, finger trailing further down, she adds, “If it simultaneously happens to make a point, that’s a win/win, right?”

 

He shrugs, catching her hand before it trails too far down, using his free hand to press his finger and thumb into his eye-sockets tiredly, almost knocking his glasses off. “What the hell.”

 

“You sure?” She checks, brows furrowing together lightly. This isn’t a spur of the moment thing for her, even if it seems like that. She wants everyone to know she’s with him, because she cares about him a lot. Because she’s serious about him. She would never risk it otherwise.

 

He blindly reaches for her hand again, squeezing it reassuringly, same soft look on his face that makes her heart feel like it’s about to combust. “Yeah, I’m sure.” Because it means more for him, too. Instantaneous relief washes over her.

 

“I will definitely be beheaded for this,” Clarke mentions half-heartedly as she presses the side of her face against Bellamy’s, turning her phone towards them. Literally. Their social media manager Lorelei Tsing will use a blunt butterknife to separate her head from her body and then string it up for all of Arkadia to admire.

 

“I’m sure your fairy godmother can put it back on.”

 

She snorts, distractedly as she lays down on her back, holding the phone up above her face as she opens the Instagram app and logs in. About a year ago she was alone in Lorelei’s office and saw the password on a yellow sticky note stuck to her computer. She took a photo of it, and not at all to her surprise, it’s not the same. But she knows Lorelei, so she just adds a 3 to the end of it instead of a 2, and she’s in. Their stoic social media manager is a lot of things (mostly scary), but she’s not very creative.

 

**The Royal Family of Arkadia**

@theroyalfamilyarkadia

_Photos and videos from inside Exodus Palace about the work and activities of The Queen and the Royal Family._

 

The last photo on it is of her parents at a state dinner with their prime minister, Mr. Kane. Out of pettiness, she pulls a face at the picture. She decides on an appropriate filter while Bellamy starts placing lazy kisses down her neck, hand disappearing under the hem of her skirt, warm on her thigh.

 

After a few other options, she settles on the caption ‘ _Princess Clarke has been spending the last half year of the school year attending Polis University in the US to complete the accreditations for her minor in Art History. She would like to introduce the Arkadian public to her boyfriend, Bellamy. They ask for your respect and privacy at this moment in time. An official introduction will follow in the near future_ ’. She lets Bellamy spellcheck it, then uploads it before she changes her mind.

 

“Well, this is gonna be fun,” she mutters, holding back an embarrassing moan as his fingers skim the underside of her panties. He looks up from sucking on her pulse point, skeptical as he cocks an eyebrow. “You know how to have fun?”

 

She scoffs, humoured, rolling them over so she can straddle him. She leans down to take his earlobe between her teeth, then press a light kiss right below it, whispering directly into his ear, breath hot against his goosebump covered skin as his fingers flex on her waist, “You were saying?”

 

.

 

Her plan backfires. The Arkadians are stoked she’s dating, the photo their fastest most liked post on their official account since it’s activation. National talk shows, local celebrities and popular papers and magazines raving about the much needed breath of fresh air Princess Clarke is compared to the archaic royal rules of conduct. Of course there’s trolls, because it’s the internet, but they’re negligible compared to the raving fans.

 

Her parents, however, have her on a private plan back to Arkadia not even a full twenty-four hours after the photo goes viral. She barely has twenty minutes to pack and say her goodbyes. There was really no protesting, no matter how unreasonable.

 

“I’m sorry, your highness,” Mr. Miller had sighed, knowing compassionate look in his eyes. “We have strict orders. Your safety is no longer guaranteed.”

 

She packed her necessities in two, having her guards drive her over to the airport straight after. Bellamy agrees to meet her there. She texts Raven, Jasper, Octavia, Maya and Monty in their group chat on her way there.

 

**DELINQUENTS**

 

 _CLARKE_ (05:29PM): Hey guys. Unfortunately I have to unexpectedly go back to Arkadia. I wish I could’ve said goodbye to all of you, but my parents aren’t too happy with me and have me scheduled for a public murder in roughly twelve hours. I’m going to miss you guys a lot. Clarke will return.

 

The Marvel reference was maybe a little much, since she doesn’t really talk about herself in third person, but Jasper introduced her to them so it feels right. Her phone doesn’t buzz much later.

 

**DELINQUENTS**

 

 _OCTAVIA_ (05:31PM): im at lincolns so cant ride w bell to the airport:( u better return bitch u promised we could prank call d*nald tr*mp on his private devices

 

 _RAVEN_ (05:32PM): picked bellamy over me. again. can you believe?

 

 _JASPER_ (05:32PM): WAKANDA FOREVER

 

 _MONTY_ (05:33PM): excuse the others, pls. Def wish we could say goodbye. You’ve been such a good friend & I’ll miss you a lot Clarke. <3

 

 _RAVEN_ (05:35PM): just threw up a little in my mouth

 

Bellamy is already waiting in front of Polis Airport when they get there, still in his guard uniform and they will definitely not discuss at what speed he drove here, Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Miller exchanging a brief glance before waiting at a respectable distance while she says goodbye.

 

“So, was the short instagram fame really worth it?” He starts, in lieu of a greeting and she rolls her eyes, parking her trolley beside her. His half smirk that’s a little sad around the edges is making her heart ache.

 

“I had a hidden agenda the entire time. Just wanted a free flight home,” she jokes, wrinkling her nose at it’s badness as she rests her hands on his shoulders.

 

“You couldn’t have offered your first newborn to a witch instead?” He retorts without skipping a beat, dry. She hides her smile by nuzzling her nose into his neck, shaking her head lightly beforehand. He’s such an idiot. An idiot she’s definitely going to miss the most.

 

“I need you to know this is not me running away, okay?”

 

“I know.” She presses a kiss to his shoulder and then there’s a beat of silence. “I completely realize this is shitty timing,” he adds, as he clears his throat awkwardly, hands coming up to circle her wrists. She pulls back to look at him, forehead crinkled and he regards her for a second, lips darting out to wet his lips nervously before he continues, “But I love you.”

 

She knows that wasn’t easy for him to admit. He’s a very distrustful person by nature, because of the way he grew up. It isn’t easy for her either. Most royal relationships were of convenience, even the friendships.

 

Her eyes soften, hands moving up to cup his face, because _of course._  Of course she feels the same way. “And I love you.” She presses her lips to his shortly, but then he leans back down and repeats the gesture, and her mouth opens beneath his, and it doesn’t take much longer before they’re making out like actual teenagers.

 

“Your highness,” Mr. Miller cuts in, looking uncomfortable. He’s known her since she was a baby so she can’t blame him for that. “Your flight.”  

 

She nods at him in acknowledgement, holding up two fingers to indicate she wants that many more minutes. He sighs, but steps back to his original spot. It’s _her_ fucking plane, it can wait another moment.

 

“If I don’t see you again—” he rasps all of a sudden, brow furrowed, because he’s Bellamy, and he wouldn’t be if he wasn’t so dramatic. If she lets this go on any longer, he might cry. She loves him for that, but then she might cry, too, and she doesn’t cry.

 

She shakes her head, choking back an amused laugh as she leans up to kiss him. When she pulls back, she searches his face, trying to memorize every freckle before running her finger over his forehead to smooth it out. She presses one more peck to his cheek, just for good measure. “You will.”

 

.

 

“Clarke, we are just trying to protect you,” her mother exclaims at the grumpy look on her daughter’s face as soon as she steps a chucks-covered foot into the palace.

 

“Is that supposed to be an apology for that ridiculous phone call?”

 

“We were out of line. It’s your life, and no matter what kind of family we are, you still get to decide who’s in it,” her father reasons. He raises his eyebrows. “But so were you, uploading that photo without considering the consequences.”

 

“What’s done is done,” her mother concludes, sternly. Then her gaze softens and she hugs her daughter. “I’m glad you’re back, sweetie. We missed you.”

 

“Roan went to college in the UK and he was fine,” is the first carefully orchestrated argument out of her mouth, face still half-buried in her mother’s hair. “It’s just one more year. Not four.”

 

“That’s some example,” her father replies, instantly, slightly offended at how dumb she thinks they are. His reading glasses slip down his nose a little. ”There are zero academic institutes of higher education and research in Azgeda. It’s not like they had a choice.”

 

“And that was Oxford. A state of the art, private university that could guarantee the House of Azgeda discretion, protection and privacy. Polis is hardly any of those things, and can’t possibly make the same kind of promises,” her mother dismisses her like the skilled leader she is, eyes narrowed together dangerously.

 

“You guys have always told me to lead with my heart, and not just my head,” Clarke counters, gaze insistent, because she’s watched her mother and father her entire life, and she’s learned a thing or two. “Being there—it felt right.”

 

Quickly, at the looks on their faces, she adds, “It’s not just because of Bellamy.” She sighs heavily, pushing her hair back from her face. “Being in Polis, and not just in this bubble that was created for me in Arkadia, it’s taught me a lot—helped me put a lot into perspective. How can I ever lead a country when I have no clue about how the world works? The _real_ world?”

 

Check fucking mate. Slytherin Clarke strikes once again, leaving no room for argument and throwing their own words back in their faces.

 

Her parents share a long look, before the King sighs. “There will be strict rules to follow.” When are there not? She bites back a smile as he continues, faux stern look on his face. He was never truly against her going to Polis, she knows that much. “This isn’t a game, Clarke.”

 

Her parents exchange one of their telepathic ‘speaking without words’ looks, their daughter patiently waiting.

 

“We can’t promise anything, not until we’ve discussed this with Indra and she can consult local police forces in Polis. Your safety has to be guaranteed,” her mother presses, and she still looks uneasy. “We _won’t_ compromise on that. No matter how much you—how much your heart belongs there.”

 

Her mother sighs deeply, and it’s not like Clarke hasn’t missed them, but she has the rest of her life with them. She brushes some hair away from Clarke’s face, absently. “We just got you back.”

 

The best part is that her parents _agree_ , with the condition she doesn’t go back until the semester starts back up again. The worst part is that summer isn’t ending for another 75 days. That’s a long fucking time. Long distance relationship are the worst.

 

She tried it for a week with Lexa, the daughter of the president of Iceland, her first girlfriend when she was fourteen. She met her at an international political youth conference her parents made her go to while Lexa was there of her own volition. During their first date they sneaked off to the Reykjavik Zoo and they kissed in front of the gorillas. By the end of their week apart, they were both so miserable they ghosted each other because it hurt less than actually breaking it off. It broke her little pubescent heart and scarred her for years after.

 

The first thing she does when she settles back into her room is take a nap. It’s been a long day, after all the emotional turmoil and the sixteen hour flight. She can’t lie and say she hasn’t missed her bed. It just feels too empty.

 

When she wakes up, she picks up her phone, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The battery is dead, so she turns to their landline. Twirling the wire around her finger, she dials Bellamy’s number and leans back against her headboard.

 

“Stop calling this fucking number,” he breathes, angrily, sounding out of breath as she hears a door slam on the other side of the line.

 

She snorts, humoured as she untwirls her fingers from the telephone wire, stifling a yawn. “Wow. Didn’t think you’d forget me this fast.”

 

“Clarke?” He sound surprised, and she hears him stalk up the stairs like he’s trying to make a point to someone. It’s only been like a day and she already misses seeing his stupid face.

 

“Yeah, you remember?” She asks, sarcastically. “Your girlfriend? The one who’s a princess of an European country?”

 

“Right. That one,” he deadpans, then exhales loudly. There’s some rummaging on the other side of the line before he continues. “Sorry about that. I don’t know where they got my number, but my phone’s been going off all day.” After a beat, he explains, like she hadn’t already figured as much, “Reporters.”

 

Yikes. She winches, hitching her knees up to her chest as she tries to warm up her feet by rubbing her free hand over them. She hates that he has to go through this because of her. “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” he replies instantly and she rolls her eyes, fond. “It kind of is.”

 

She looks over at the clock on her nightstand. It’s late here, which makes it early evening there, so he probably just came home from his day shift.

 

“Indirectly maybe,” he agrees, “but these assholes made all the terrible life choices that ended up with them swarming a stranger’s house like stalkers all by themselves.”

 

“Thank you,” she replies, on a more serious note, voice surprisingly soft—even to herself. “For dealing with all of this, with me.”

 

There’s a beat, just static on the other end of the line, and then, she can practically feel his smirk as he says, “You don’t make it easy.”

.

Her skin prickles uncomfortably from being around people with double agendas, her neck seriously hurts from the weight of the diamond crown on her head it’s been supporting all day and her face is sore from smiling. All in all, she could use a long hot bath.

 

But, because Clarke’s at a state diner—or more like high tea since it’s the middle of the day and they won’t serve anything but little tiny fucking hors d’oeuvres she can swallow down without chewing and don’t do anything to sate her hunger—she has to settle for taking a moment outside on the balcony with her phone and a glass of champagne that barely manages to take the edge off.

 

Her mother watches her slip outside with one of those looks on her face that tells her she’s going to get a verbal ass-kicking on the carriage back to their hotel, but Clarke figures that’s Future Clarke’s problem, not hers.

 

And because she’s weak, and stupid, and very weak, she’s already typing out a message to her boyfriend before even finishing her beverage. She wishes she had some self-control.

 

**clarke [14:13]**

> _your president tweeted about us. something about his Very Good foreign relationships?_

 

 **bellamy [14:17]**  

> _wow can you reply and tell him to go fuck himself_

 

**clarke [14:19]**

> _contemplated it. but i think he would probably ban me from entering his country._

 

**clarke [14:20]**

> _and that so happens to be the country you live in._

 

**clarke [14:20]**

> _also. my mom would absolutely never let me leave the house again._
> 
>  

**bellamy [14:22]**

> _so that’s double the amount of time we won’t be able to see each other. double zero. soooooo…. zero._
> 
>  

**bellamy [14:23]**

> _can you at least casually passive aggressively let it drop you’d have voted for hillary?_
> 
>  

Clarke bites her lip, thumb hovering over her phone as she tries not to smile to obnoxiously at a screen. She doesn’t want to be clingy, but she really, really wishes she was with him right now, instead of here, dress so tight she can barely breathe and make-up plastered on her face so thickly she can feel it move every time she has a facial expression.

 

**bellamy [14:24]**

> _I really miss you_

 

Her heart lurches in her chest, and she might feel like crying, just a little. It could also be the fact she’s starving, but still. He knows exactly what she’s thinking, feels exactly what she’s feeling. Except he’s not afraid admitting it will make him look weak or vulnerable. Perhaps, he deserves the same courtesy.

 

 **clarke [14:27]**  

> _i really miss you too, idiot_

 

She tacks on the insult last minute just because she’s Clarke and she can’t come out and just say it like that without protecting herself somehow. Still, it’s true. She does miss him, more than anything. All of this is just really hard. Harder than she thought it would be.

 

The glass door behind her opens, and Clarke looks over her shoulder to find her dad looking at her. Without looking, she stuffs her phone back into her clutch, turning around to face him fully once she does.

 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, stepping out on the balcony with her and closing the door behind him. “Your mom asked me to come check up on you.”

 

“She asked you to come escort me inside,” Clarke corrects him, and her dad grins, fond. “Maybe so.”

 

“Ever so politically correct,” she retorts, leaning into him as he puts his arm around her bare-shoulders, basking in the warmth. Her dress tonight was strapless, and she hadn’t really registered the cold breeze until now.

 

Jake squeezes her arm, pulls her in closer. “How you really doing, kiddo?”

 

“I’m fine,” she says, voice tight, avoiding his gaze, then because it’s her _dad,_  she adds, “Also, horrible. Very horrible.”

 

“Ah,” Jake hisses, like he’s reminiscing. “Long-distance, huh?”

 

“Yeah, it sucks,” Clarke breathes, relieved to finally let it all out. It’s barely been two weeks. That’s like less than twenty percent of the time they’re going to spend apart this summer. “I just—I wish he could be here with me, that’s all.”

 

Amongst other things that she will not ever share with her father.

 

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “You really like this guy, don’t you?” He’s literally so embarrassing.

 

“Dad,” she warns, teasingly as she looks up at him. She brushes a strand of hair away from her face when the wind blows it into her line of sight, opening her mouth, then closing it. Finally, she settles on, “He knew who I was. And he didn’t like me because of it, he liked me despite of it.”

 

Jake sighs, and he doesn’t sound judgemental, just worried when he asks, “How can you be so sure, Clarke?”

 

“Because—because he knew, from the start, the whole time. He could have exposed me any time, anywhere, but he didn’t,” she answers, genuine, wanting to lick her dry lips before remembering the layers of red lipstick covering them. “And he never treated me any differently. He argued with me all the time, pissed me off beyond reason, made my life hell and I—” She smiles. “I enjoyed every second of it.”

 

She’s sure, because she’s sure of _him_. She trusts him, completely. And that’s a little scary, but also kind of liberating. She’s never felt this way about another human before, not unless they were family. And they didn’t count, because they practically groomed her to trust them ever since she was a baby.

 

“Sounds like a keeper,” her dad replies, solemnly, a grin on his face. “So are you going to break the news to your mom she can cancel dinner with Duke and Duchess Collins, or should I?”

 

If her mother liked Finn so much, maybe she should divorce her dad and marry him herself. He was nice, and sort of handsome in a boyish way, but also kind of entitled in that holier-than-thou way. If he did charity work, the whole world damn well was going to know about it.

 

Clarke rolls her eyes, turning to pick up her flute of champagne as she walks back over to the glass door, all the while lifting the skirt of her dress so she doesn’t trip over it. “Please, the pleasure is all mine.”

.

“So, it’s officially been forty-six days,” Clarke states, looking up from her phone at the screen of her computer to find her boyfriend staring back at her. The clock in the corner of her Macbook reads 18:03. “For you at least. I still have a few hours to go.”

 

Bellamy looks pretty good, even through a grainy screen that occasionally freezes in the middle of a sentence. He’s wearing his glasses and her favorite blue henley, his hair a mess on top of his head as he’s sprawled across his couch. He looks tired. And cute.

 

She said hi to Octavia earlier, but then the brunette had to leave for a late-night studying session which Clarke knows is code for going over to Lincoln to perform at least three to five sexual favours. From the way Bellamy cringed, he could tell as much.

 

He yawns, sitting up and adjusting the laptop on his stomach. “Happy forty-seven days separation anniversary then, babe.”

 

“I really wish I could kiss you,” she blurts out, without even realizing she said it at first, voice maybe a little it more rough than intended. It’s just the whole tired, messy look is really doing it for her. Then calling her babe? Fourteen year old Clarke is shaking.

 

He groans, throwing his head back on to the couch. “ _Clarke_.” She shrugs innocently, and it’s not like she’s trying to drive him crazy, or herself for that matter. Sometimes she just wishes she could reach out—and touch. Not even filthy stuff (even though she loves the filthy stuff as well). Just wishes she could lean her head against his shoulder, or intertwine their fingers, or rub her nose against his jaw.

 

“So,” she drawls, casually, abruptly changing the subject as she tries to keep her face neutral. “You and that girl Gina, huh? Did you two have fun on your date?”

 

She is referring to the most recent rumours in all of the most popular international gossip magazines lately. Arkadia hadn’t been this popular in a while, not until she started dating a commoner from the US of A at least. Now people were tweeting, and gramming, and blogging about the two of them, using hashtags like #royalcouple and #bellarke. Hence the recent headlines, like ‘PRINCESS’ BOYTOY SPOTTED OUT AND ABOUT WITH MYSTERY LADY’ and ‘ROYAL BEAVER ALLEGEDLY NOT ENOUGH FOR PRINCESS CLARKE’S AMERICAN BEAU’ accompanied by different versions of some dark, grainy pictures of Bellamy and Gina in the alley behind Delinquents taken from a few questionable angles.

 

She’s not _really_ jealous, theoretically knows those people literally sell trash for a living and like to dramatize everything, but feels like she should mention it anyway. Open communication and all. Besides, she likes teasing him.

 

One of his eyebrows raises, skeptical. “What exactly do you want me to say?”

 

Clarke rolls over from her stomach onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow and supporting her head with her hand. “Obviously I want you to call her an ugly troll so my self-esteem doesn’t take a giant hit.”

 

He pushes his glasses further up his nose, folding his hands on top of his stomach as he informs her, “I’m not going to. You’re both very pretty, but only one of you is my girlfriend.” A smirk appears on his face, and for once she’s glad the screen freezes for a few seconds even though the sound continues, “And the other one’s a princess.”

 

“Ha-ha,” she counter, dryly, “I was kidding. I know she works with you at the bar.” She thinks she heard Raven mention how awesome the new bartender was, and Clarke wishes they hadn’t involved the poor girl like this. “I’m sorry again that you’re being dragged into this. And her as well.”

  
“I love a good smear campaign every now and then,” he deadpans, “Keeps me on my toes.”

 

“Be serious,” she counters, stern. If he ever wants out, she wants him to know that’s okay. All of this—sometimes it can be a bit overwhelming, even for her. And she’s been doing it since birth. “If you ever feel like it’s too much, just tell me, okay?” This was a partnership, she promised him that at the very start.

 

“I can’t speak for Gina,” Bellamy quips, “But I knew what I was getting into. I don’t _like_ it, but it’s worth it.”

 

“Even when you’ve been celibate for forty-six days and—” She squints at the clock on the bottom right corner of her computer again, mentally counting back to the time they actually said goodbye at the airport. “—like three hours?”

 

His mouth forms a thin line, like he’s trying to keep from grinning. “I kind of feel like you’re more bothered by it then I am.”

 

It’s not like she is horny _all_ the time or that his penis is golden and it’s all she can think about. It’s just she has _needs,_  like any other young, healthy woman out there. And he’s very capable of fulfilling them. Besides, would he rather she be thinking about fulfilling them with someone else, like her cute servant Fox? That new bodyguard Monroe? She thinks not.

 

“Well, we technically only had sex like once before I got shipped off to the other side of the world.” And _technically_ she is a thinker. She overthinks things. A lot. “The next time is either going to be better, or a complete let down. And building up all this tension really isn’t helping bettering our odds it’ll be the former.”

 

Clarke eyes hover on the dark phantom of a body passing her doorway, and she suddenly remembers where she is and who she is. If her mom overhears even a sentence of this conversation, she’ll be dead for the foreseeable future. So she tries to shush him, pressing her hands against her computer like it’s his mouth, but he’s already halfway through the sentence. “If I remember correctly, it was more like four or five tim—”

 

“So, in other news,” she announces, loudly, cutting him off, and she can tell he’s trying not to laugh, “I blackmailed our secretary of defense Diana Sydney into basically not bringing slavery back into fashion under the guise of letting immigrants volunteer for the army in exchange for a pink letter.”

 

“I assume your pink letters are our green cards?”

 

“Yes, but we made it fashion.”

 

“Cool. I convinced my assistant-coach Murphy—you’ve met him, right—to not hand in any resumes where he spells ‘you die next’ with an ‘y’ instead of an ‘i’.”

 

“He sounds like such a charmer, I’m sure someone will take him off your hands soon enough.”

 

“If only I was so lucky,” he sighs. “Madi really likes him though, so I have to act fast before he ruins her.”

 

“Correctly spelling how you’re going to potentially murder your employer sounds like a step in the right direction.”

.

It’s not all sunshine, rainbows and newborn puppies. They’ve had arguments before; Clarke is too controlling, Bellamy too protective, they’re both too stubborn, and they’re still undecided whether it’s effective for some parts of the media to be censored from the public (prompted by some deliciously bad HBO show). It’s never been like _this,_  though.

 

“Just let me venmo you a few hundred bucks for groceries—”

 

She can practically feel him grit his teeth together through the phone. “Clarke, _no_.”

 

The day before Octavia accidentally let it drop that because of her short 30 minute stint to the hospital by courtesy of a strained (but definitely not broken, thank you 3 different angled 800 dollar x-rays) ankle she got during karate practice. It was obvious she hadn’t meant to tell Clarke, perhaps wasn’t allowed.

 

“Seriously?” Clarke argues, feeling herself get more and more aggravated with each word she speaks. “I have more money than I could ever spend, just let me do this.”

 

“I said no,” Bellamy snaps and her hand tightens around her phone as she slams her bedroom door shut, lowering her voice into a hiss, “Can you stop being an insufferable ass for one second and just let me help you?”

 

He hangs up on her. Actually hangs up on her. Like a five year old throwing a temper tantrum.

 

They don’t talk or text for three whole days—the longest they’ve gone without any sort of communication since she left—both waiting for the other to give in and both suffering because of it. Octavia keep sending her pictures of herself looking depressed because of her brother’s grumpy attitude whenever he is home and not burying himself in his jobs, and even Bellamy’s friend from campus, Emori—who she has never even met—tracks her down and sends her a picture of a shopping cart loaded with booze and a thumbs down, no caption added.

 

Then, when she’s at a fancy gala slash fundraiser for a hospital somewhere in Asia—one of her mom’s passion projects—in a tight red off-the-shoulder dress with a slit up her leg and her hair up in a bun to prop up a silver crown with ruby stones, she can feel her phone vibrate in her purse. By the frequency and duration of the buzzes, she can tell it’s Bellamy calling.

 

Since she is in the middle of a conversation with Baroness Diyoza, she pointedly ignores it. Not because the conversation is pleasant, or because she likes the way her slimey bodyguard’s eyes keep roaming up her body like she is a dish about to be served, but because Diyoza brought her baby and Clarke loves babies (even if the baby might hypothetically be fathered by the slimey bodyguard). She needs the dopamine that forms whenever she looks at them, especially in times like these.

 

When it _keeps_ buzzing and even Diyoza is raising a questioning eyebrow, Clarke excuses herself from the baroness, unwrapping her baby’s pudgy hand from her fingers, and walking out into the hallway.

 

She casually nods a hello at some ancient prime-minister passing her to go inside before finding the most secluded corner and digging her phone out of her purse. “What?”

 

There’s a pregnant pause. “Happy to hear from you as well, princess,” he bites back, bitterly. _Bellamy_. She silently curses herself for having such a strong reaction to just hearing his voice.

 

Luckily, she can power through it. “That’s funny, coming from the guy who went MIA for days.”

 

“I was busy. Besides, I didn’t see any of your missed messages,” he retorts, sarcastic and her fists ball at her sides as she tries not to start yelling at her phone in a public space. She can only imagine the headlines then.

 

“I’m sorry I care about your well-being, Bellamy,” she blurts out, forcing a smile on her face as some of her dad’s guards pass her by, “I’m sorry I want you to have a roof over your head and that I want you and Octavia to be able to have three meals a day—”

 

“I’ve dealt with this before,” he replies, curt, and he’s so fucking determined to not take her money, it’s making her blood boil. Why is he so insistent on doing everything on his own? Is it his ego, or his pride? Is he afraid she’ll think less of him because of it? “I can handle it.”

 

“I’m not doubting you can, I’m saying you don’t _have_ to,” Clarke retorts, resting her free hand in the crook of her elbow, folding her arm across her chest. The last thing she wanted was to have another fight with him. “Three hundred dollars is nothing to me.”

 

“And it’s _everything_ to me, Clarke!” He snaps, and she winces inwardly, regretting her choice of words instantly. Suddenly it clicks. Even if it’s not much for her, it is for him and for her to imply it’s no big deal is maybe, possibly erasing some of his struggles. “I don’t want your money, and I definitely don’t want your charity.” She hears him take a sharp intake of breath, taking a hesitant beat, before adding, begrudgingly but still surprisingly soft despite the roughness of his voice, “I just want you, okay?”

 

She swallows tightly, leaning her head back against the gold-rimmed wallpaper, screwing her eyes shut. Maybe she should have just left it alone.

 

More silences stretches between them, only the sound of their breathing on the line, the distant hubbub of the gala behind closed doors, maybe some cars driving by on his side of the call. She imagines him having pulled over on his way back from campus, sitting in his car on the side of the road because he doesn’t want Octavia to eavesdrop.

 

“I missed you,” he breathes, finally, and just like that, Clarke’s shoulders slump as she leans back against a wall, all of her hostility and arguments fading into one simple thought, that she misses him, too. She bites down on her lip, hoping the plant beside her shields her from most of the guests walking in and out of the ballroom. “And I _am_ sorry. That I cut you off without an explanation.”

 

“I understand,” she sighs, adjusting the crown on her head just a tiny smidge. She wonders how much longer she has to stay before she can casually bail and ask Mr. Sinclair to drive her home. “I’m sorry too. For pushing.”

 

“And?” He asks, expectant and impatient, and she can just imagine him pouting like a two year old. He loves attention, so the last three days must’ve been very hard on him.

 

Clarke grins, biting down a chuckle. “This gala totally sucks?” Which is not a lie. Her most interesting conversational partner that night was the baby. And she couldn’t even talk.

 

“And?” He presses, to which she answers, keeping her tone oblivious, “Uhm. Tell your sister and the others I miss them?”

 

Bellamy groans, like the drama queen he is, and she finally laughs. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Bell?”

 

“So what if I am? My ego has taken a serious hit the past couple of days now there’s no one to counteract my sister’s insults.”

 

“Don’t you have friends?”

 

“They’re just as mean as her.”

 

“Fine,” she laughs, for the first time tonight she feels at home in her own skin. “Maybe, possibly, there's a slight chance I missed talking to you as well.”

.

Just five more days, Clarke reminds herself. Five more. They made it like seventy days without any problems. Figures shit hits the fan when there’s only _five_ days left.

 

Her mom had shoved the local paper under her nose as soon as Clarke got back from lunch with Miller Jr., back from France for the summer.

 

THE ARK DAILY

_ROYAL SEXTS LEAKED: Precious Princess Clarke Gets Raunchy with Civilian Boyfriend_

 

There were roughly 120 hours left. _One-hundred-and-twenty_ , before she could get on a plane and see him, in real life, and they wouldn’t have to resort to sexting ever again (or at least for the next year). Yet…

 

Yet, the universe was conspiring against her. She was promised her phone would be unhackable. Still, her private text messages are plastered on every front page of every international medium that matters. Maybe it’s Lorelei’s secret revenge.

 

 **CLARKE [** **_01:03]_ **

> _I MISS YOU_
> 
>  

**CLARKE [** **_01:03]_ ** 

> _I’m also in bed. Thinking of you…_

 

She’d texted him in a moment of weakness—when she was just the right amount of tipsy after a few glasses of champagne at a banquet to celebrate the upcoming elections—feeling a little more _excited_ than usual.

 

Roan was in a neighbouring country for a state visit after recently being crowned King—his mother Nia had stepped down—and had accompanied her as a pity plus one. His wife Luna was pregnant back in Azgeda—they two of them were unfairly hot in that not even trying, was born flexing, toned even though I never work out, kind of way. Especially together. She could only fear the effect their child was going to have on the world.

 

The whole night she was confronted with lovey-dovey couples. Roan kept asking her about her boyfriend because they banned talking politics between the two of them and—bless him—but they had nothing else in common beside having romantic interests in other humans. And on top of that, she was ovulating. So purely physically speaking, it wasn’t even her fault she was so horny. Plus, it’d been a while, at that point. Staring at photos of them together while she contemplated her life in bed, also didn’t really help.

 

Bellamy’s response took a while, considering he was probably at work in the bar or on campus.

 

 **BELLAMY** **[** **01:12]**

> _Jesus Clarke_

 

 **BELLAMY** **[** **01:12]**

> _I’m at work_

 

 **BELLAMY** **[** **01:14]**

> _Jesus_

 

**CLARKE [01:16]**

> _i’d really like to know what youd do to me if you were here right now………………………………… :/_

 

**BELLAMY [01:17]**

> _That’s so many ellipses_

 

 **BELLAMY** **[01:17]**

> _Sexting is not really my style_

 

**CLARKE [01:19]**

> _someone is a P-U-S-S-Y_

 

 **BELLAMY** **[01:20]**

> _You are what you eat:)_

 

 **CLARKE** **[01:22]**

> _fukc yoiu_

 

 **BELLAMY** **[01:26]**

> _gladly_

 

 **CLARKE** **[01:29]**

> _so… help a girl out and tell me how you would_

 

 **CLARKE** **[01:29]**

> _spare no details_
> 
>  

That was just the beginning of a very, very long thread of messages. An incredibly satisfactory thread, nevertheless. Even if now she was on the receiving end of a lecture by her mother at 21 years old, in her soundproof office, two guards blocking it’s only exit.

 

Her dad was sitting behind the desk, fingers pressed together in front of his face like a triangle, staring at nothing like he’d been scarred forever. He probably was.

 

Meanwhile, her mother was staring out the window, ranting on and on about _responsibility_ and _being a role model for the masses_. Clarke almost bites back with an ‘as if the masses don’t have sex’ but decides against it. No sense in pissing her mom off beyond repair right now.

 

She was, however, _definitely_ going to type out an essay on why people were so interested in her sex life when there were more pressing matters going on in the world later, no matter how much more that pissed Queen Abby off.

 

Clark had the first draft typed out on a tablet (since her phone was being destroyed as they speak) and lying discreetly in her lap, when she decided to email her partner in crime from her unknown, personal account she mostly used for shit like Netflix. If she was going to have to sit through this scolding session, the least he could do was share some of the trauma with her.

 

* * *

[ **notprincessclarke@gmail.com** ](mailto:notprincessclarke@gmail.com)

_Monday, September 1st at 15:35 (UTC+2)_

THIS IS WHY I DON’T SEXT

* * *

[ **b.blake@polisuniversity.edu.com** ](mailto:b.blake@polisuniversity.edu.com)

_Monday, September 1st at 09:38AM (UTC-4)_

You started it, princess.

* * *

 

She scoffs out loud, drawing her mother’s attention. Clarke quickly takes on a neutral expression, clearing her throat as if she’s been paying attention the entire time. So what if she did? It takes two to tango, or in this case, two to fucking embarrass themselves internationally.

 

* * *

[ **notprincessclarke@gmail.com** ](mailto:notprincessclarke@gmail.com)

_Monday, September 1st at 15:42 (UTC+2)_

Wow. I’m cancelling my flight as we speak.

* * *

[ **b.blake@polisuniversity.edu.com** ](mailto:b.blake@polisuniversity.edu.com)

_Monday, September 1st at 09:47AM (UTC-4)_

Sure.

* * *

[ **notprincessclarke@gmail.com** ](mailto:notprincessclarke@gmail.com)

_Monday, September 1st at 15:49 (UTC+2)_

Okay, I’m not. But only because I want to kick your ass IRL

* * *

[ **b.blake@polisuniversity.edu.com** ](mailto:b.blake@polisuniversity.edu.com)

_Monday, September 1st at 09:51AM (UTC-4)_

I’m absolutely positive that’s the only reason.

* * *

 

Fucking asshole.

 

After a long hour and a half, she’s finally allowed to retreat to her room. Jackson left a present on her bed, reminding her why he’s her favorite palace guard. As soon as she installs her new phone and gets her favorite apps back in rotation, it lights up with notifications.

 

 **RAVEN** **[16:41]**  

> _how cute, your first public scandal <3 _

 

Octavia snapchatted her multiple photos. The first in which she’s faux casually reading PEOPLE magazine, the second her eyes are bulged and her mouth is agape, and in the third Lincoln is handing her a bucket as she pretends to throw up, text reading ‘ _there’s some things a sister is better off not knowing’_.

 

Monty is offering to find out who hacked her in their group text, Jasper trailing on about wanting the movie rights to her biopic while Maya just offers her condolences.

 

She turns off the google alert on her name next, since nothing she could do the next couple of weeks would steer the attention away from this debacle and she’s tired of reading about it. She falls back on her bed, staring at the ceiling absentmindedly as she twirls a strand of hair around her finger. Maybe she felt like dying today, but at least she could suffer together with him, soon. Very soon, and that made her feel slightly less suicidal.

 

.

 

When she steps off the plane, Octavia is there to greet her with her buff TA boyfriend Lincoln, waving excitedly. There’s a motorcycle helmet lodged under his arm and another one in his hand, which must mean they have a deathwish. If not the motorcycle, then her brother.

 

Her friend opens her arms to embrace her, then blinks at her for a beat before lowering her arms. “I don’t—am I supposed to curtsy or something?”

 

Her brow furrows together and Clarke rolls her eyes, waving her off before pulling the brunette into a one-armed hug herself. Octavia squeezes her tightly, telling her she smells like ‘plane in the bad way’, which is probably code for the fact she missed her. Clarke offers the same to Lincoln, even if Sinclair is eyeing him suspiciously because of the whole leather jacket but gilet but tattoos but kind eyes but very muscled combo.

 

“I’m driving with her back to campus,” Octavia announces, not waiting for permission from either her boyfriend or Clarke’s bodyguards. They have to take the scenic route of the airport—to avoid paps and the ‘fans’—flanked by two grown men while Octavia fills her in on the parties, almost-arrests and hook-ups she missed out on during summer.

 

Before they know it, they’re pulling up in front of Polis U. Clarke has like thirty minutes to change into something more formal and comb through her hair before she has to attend a press conference. It’s not ideal, but in turn for her having a Polis U promotional talk for max fifteen minutes, they’ll mostly leave her alone for the rest of the semester and offer them extra security.

 

And even if she hates televised propaganda, she can’t help but smile the entire way through it. Not just because it was muscle memory from a life of media training but also because half a year ago, she couldn’t have imagined calling this place home and now she doesn’t know any better. Arkadia will always be her _actual_ home, and she’s sure she’ll miss it, but her friends, they’re all here and that’s where she wants to be for now.

 

This year might even be off to an even better start, considering she gets to share a dorm with Raven (had her friend hack her government to erase some questionable juvy stints on Raven’s part and also pulled a few royal privileges at Polis U to get the biggest available room) and she actually has people she knows in her corner this time around. Plus, she gets to take classes she’s actually interested in and doesn’t have to actively fear being found out all the time.

 

Sure, it’ll come with some downsides. Like people actually knowing who she is this time around, and the drama and danger that comes along with that, but it’s mostly all acceptable. And at least this time around she can find some comfort in the fact Sinclair and Miller won’t be breaking their backs sleeping in their cars overnight—her mother purchased the Blakes’ neighbouring house at double the price and enforced them staying there whenever Clarke did as a hard rule. Also, now that people know she’s a princess, they won’t have to blend in as much and she can just ask them along to parties instead of sneaking out at ungodly hours.

 

(Plus, Jasper and Monty are in the crowd wearing t-shirts with her face on it and holding a sign begging people to sign a petition to rename the school after her. How could she _not_ smile?)

 

Her friends bully her into coming to a welcome back dinner (read: excuse to drink booze before five) at Octavia’s house, and Clarke enjoys herself—she _does_ —but she also can’t stop looking at the clock. See, today was the day the Grounders had their first tournament in their current formation and (possibly because she was trying to prove the point she wasn’t dependent on him or a needy, clingy girlfriend and could do another twelve hours without being in his presence) she practically forced him not to bail on the children. He agreed (probably trying to prove the same point), saying he couldn’t leave Murphy alone with the kids anyway.

 

Clarke loves all her friends equally, she does. Bellamy’s just her favorite. Not that she’ll ever admit that out loud.

 

She hears the dudd of his bag hitting the floor before she hears his voice. “Clarke?”

 

“Bellamy,” she states, turning on her heels. They just stand there, staring at each other, and Clarke can’t bear to be the one to look away. It’s been so long, and he looks so good. He’s still wearing his Grounders jersey, his name and title etched on his chest, hair tousled on top of his head, grown a little too long, and freckles even more apparent thanks to a summer spend mostly outside, skin darker golden shade of brown.

 

“Did you win?” Clarke asks, when she finds her voice, still standing there like an idiot. Her fingers itch, wanting to reach out and touch him, but she doesn’t quite know how when her body is still getting used to the sight of him again.

 

He tries to hide a grin, badly. “Participation is just as important as winning.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.” She think standing here, being content exchanging useless banter as a weird form of foreplay to postpone an inevitable reunion hug and prove who has the most restraint would probably be strange for anyone who wasn’t them.

 

“Of course we did,” he replies, proud but borderline smug smirk on his face. “Our last match Madi scored the winning goal. She wanted me to tell you.”

 

He opens his arms, and she grins, stepping into them. Her arms loop around his neck, squeezing him tightly. He tilts his head back to look at her, better, waiting for her to make the first move. Imagining this moment—and that’s happened a lot—she always thought it’d be sweet, slow.

 

Instead, she finds herself fisting his shirt and pulling him down to meet her mouth. It literally only takes him a second to get over his surprise, and then he’s kissing her back, tongue sliding into her mouth, one hand on the small of her back pressing him closer to him, chest warm and hard under hers. Clarke’s head goes fuzzy, completely blank, whole body on fire. God, she really missed his kisses.

 

Then she regrettably has to let go off him, since they’re still surrounded by their friends and she isn’t too big of a PDA fan since that was beaten out of her system since birth, and all. Also, some of her friends are whooping and cheering, and she feels this is a step too close to voyeurism for her liking.

 

“This is so fucked up,” Raven comments out loud, sighing loudly as she fishes a five dollar bill out of her jeans. Clarke sends her a wary look, ending up on the receiving end of a scowl. Octavia snatches the bill from her, holding it up in the air against the light, “She thought you’d two bone on the spot.”

 

Bellamy wipes his mouth, wet from kissing, which Clarke is not ashamed to say sends a spark straight to her lower belly, slinging his arm around her shoulders. “You bet on your own brother?”

 

Octavia scoffs, unimpressed, “It’s just business, Bell, nothing personal.”

 

Bellamy has to detach himself from her side eventually to go to the kitchen to heat up some leftovers, because his stomach grumbles and she promises him she won’t disappear during a two minute absence.

 

“What do you say we ditch the rest?” Bellamy asks her in a low voice, eyebrows hiked over the edge of his cup as he takes a swig. Her eyes linger on their friends, in the midst of a heated UNO tournament that somehow has everyone doing shots as well. American college kids—some things never change. (Except for the fact Raven is on Wells' lap, that's new. Clarke exchanged a knowing look with Raven, who just flipped her the bird.)

 

“They’re here for me,” she counters, just out of principle, but she’s already looking for the most convenient escape route upstairs.

 

“This is my house. So if it makes you feel better I could kick them out,” he offers in return with a casual lift of his shoulder. There’s not a doubt on Clarke’s mind he would actually do it, and she has to make an effort to choke back a laugh.

 

As discreetly as possible, she stands up, tugging on his hand until he follows her. She takes her empty cup as a back-up plan, so in the unlikely case they get caught she can just say they were getting refills.

 

He leads her up the stairs and into his room, the click of the door shutting behind them making her feel weirdly nervous all of a sudden. Then she meets his gaze, and there’s a strange flutter in her stomach, but it’s not unfamiliar.

 

Clarke feels stupidly glad to have his gaze on her again, doesn’t have the heart to break away, wants to bask in it for as long as she can. He seems to share the same thought, not breaking away as his fingers intertwine with hers, and he murmurs something along the lines of ‘ _let me look at you'_  as he lifts their hands above her head, tugging on hers to make her twirl, and she laughs, loud and fond and no longer nervous, and when she comes to a standstill in front of him he presses his mouth to hers. She doesn’t think it was supposed to be anything more than just a quick affectionate peck, but soon she’s pulling him closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and opening up her mouth beneath his.

 

Their breaths grow louder, her heart beating hard, pounding in her ears, fingers grasping onto his shoulders to keep herself steady. His tongue meets hers gently at first, mouth moving slowly against hers, applying differing pressure, giving her a kiss she feels all the way down to the tips of her fingers, her toes. He pulls away eventually, tightening his arms around her waist as he noses his way down to her ear. Bellamy presses a kiss there, and she tries not to shudder.

 

He pulls back, brushing some hair away from her face before keeping his hand in place on her cheek. “Hey,” he says, still a little breathless, and she can’t believe she ever worried about whether or not they would be able to take off where they left off. Of course they do. They’re them. And Clarke is suddenly hyper aware of how she didn’t realize _exactly_ how much she missed him until this moment.

 

She grins, so wide her cheeks hurt and she forgets to feel embarrassed about it, as she echoes him, “Hi.”

 

His thumb caresses her cheek softly, and then he leans back down for another brief touching of their lips. Out of nowhere, she feels the urge to yawn. She tries to stifle it, hide it behind her hand, but he’s Bellamy, so of course he notices. “I’ll try not to take that as an insult.”

 

After a ten hour flight, a public appearance, and a hectic dinner party where she may or may not have had a few drinks, maybe she’s more tired than she originally thought.

 

“It’s not you, it’s the jetlag?” Clarke offers, lifting her shoulders up to her ears, hoping it comes across more cute, adorable girlfriend than neckless troll, but he grins so she guesses it doesn’t really matter.

 

His hand moves down her arm to her hand, as he nods over to his bed, “Nap?”

 

“Nap,” she decides, rubbing her eye with her free fist as she lets him tug her over to the bed. She sits down on the bed, yawning again as she starts pulling off her boots.

 

“I’ll be right back,” Bellamy says, then disappears into his bathroom. He returns shirtless, handing over a pile of clothes and a makeup wipe, probably courtesy of Octavia.

 

“My knight in shining armor,” Clarke quips, cynical. She tries to shimmy out of her jeans while using one hand to wipe her face clean, feeling it’s best to multitask now that are limbs are starting to feel heavy.

 

“Don’t think now’s the time for roleplay, princess.” He steadies her by putting a hand on her shoulder as she almost falls over trying to get her foot unstuck from the leg of her jeans, helping her unhook it. She throws the wipe in the trash can beside his nightstand, hoping she got most of it off without a mirror, and Bellamy helps her pull her shirt over her head next. He hands her one of his from the pile of clothes, assisting her with getting it to cover her frame. He even pulls her hair from the back of the collar, smoothing it out for her with both of his hands. She loves him.

 

Clarke crawls on top of the bed, snuggling into his blankets. The smell of him engulves her, and she sighs softly. “It’s a shame I can barely keep my eyes open,” she mumbles, almost petulant. Peaking through one eye, she watches him take off his pants, revealing more of his golden brown skin, biceps and abs flexing under the movement and making her pulse flutter in her chest.

 

(When she is fully conscious she is definitely going to kiss the shit out of him. Probably more. For now, dreaming about it will have to do for another night.)

 

“Yeah?” He chuckles, amused, climbing into bed with her after throwing them over his desk chair. Somehow on the way there he shuts off the lights as well.

 

“Yeah,” she mutters, closing her eyes when it gets too hard to keep them open. As soon as her head hit the pillow, her body practically shut down. “The view is amazing.”

 

He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, then lays down on his side, facing her. It’s quiet for a moment, but something lingers in the air that keeps her from fully falling asleep. Finally, he whispers, finger tracing the slope of her nose, “I’m glad you’re back.”

 

“Me too,” she mutters, lazily reaching out to touch him. She doesn’t want to poke him in the eye and her hand-eye-coordination is currently off so she aims extra low, palm landing on top of his ribs. His skin is warm under hers, heat spreading from her fingertips to the rest of her body.

 

It’s quiet, beside their slow breathing and the faint hubbub of laughter and shouting downstairs. It’s nice.

 

“Did you ever—” She starts, brain sleepdrunk and probably emboldened by the dark, making her mouth move before she gives permission. All of her insecurities of the past three months—that she tried so hard to squash away, tried not to bring up because they were half a world apart and she hated the thought of exposing herself like that through a phone, or a computer screen, hated the fact that kind of vulnerability still made her want to run—bubbling up to the surface. “Think about ending it?”

 

“Probably would have been easier,” he answers genuinely, and his fingers reach out to smooth out the frown on her forehead. “Could’ve done with a few less horrible pap pics of me out there, ruining all of my street cred.”

 

She snorts. “You’re so shallow.”

 

His fingers dance over her arm playfully. “You like me being shallow. Didn’t you _just_ say you liked the view?”

 

She smiles, affectionate, turning her head slightly to hide it in the pillow, before shutting her eyes again. A comfortable silence laps between them for a few moments, then he asks, hesitant, “What about you?”

 

Her eyes spring open at his, blinking at him. “After those sexts leaked? Definitely.”

 

He tilts his head at her, and she can make out out the weighty look in his brown eyes, even when the pale moonlight streaming in from his window just barely highlights their features. “Be serious.”

 

She sighs, loud and drawn out, rolling onto her back so she can look at the ceiling instead of him, slinging her arm over her forehead. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “It was hard,” she admits, finally, shifting her head so she can look at him. “And it’s probably not going to get any easier.”

 

“My little miss Sunshine, huh?” He teases, but his voice is too soft, too delicate.

 

“I mean,” she starts, unsure how to really put it into words, when her head is spinning and every muscle in her body feels weary. “Being who I am… We both know it’s going to be difficult. The odds are that this is going to end badly and we’re both going to get hurt. And we probably _are_ better off not even starting—”

 

“Hey,” he cuts her off, slightly irritable, “I think we get it.”

 

She chokes down a light giggle, biting down on her bottom lip before breathing out a pointed, “But.”

 

Clarke feels his head shift towards her more than she sees it, can just imagine the way his eyebrows are raised. “But?”

 

She swallows hard, letting out another deep breath. “Being apart made me realize how real this is, what we have. And that feeling used to make me want run and hide, pretend it wasn’t there.” How many times has she ended a relationship before they got too close? _Because_ they got too close? For the longest time, a sort-of-arranged marriage seemed best to her, a way to keep everything clinical and uncomplicated. Now she knows different, she knows _him_ , and she almost longs for the messines of something authentic, someone that hers. “Because I could never risk it. Love is—it’s something they can use against you.”

 

He groans, but there’s some amusement weaved through the frustration. “This isn’t making me feel any better.”

 

She rolls back onto her side, putting her hand on the side of his face. She stares into his eyes for a second, thumb caressing his cheek. “I want to risk it. With you. Even if it means I’ll get hurt. I know it’s going to be though, but it’s not going to end over my fears and insecurities.” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, movements stilling as she searches his face. “I promise I won’t run.”

 

He leans forward to press his mouth to her forehead, “I promise that even if you do, I’ll keep trying.” Then he pulls her into his arms, squeezing her body tightly to his for a second before loosening his grip slightly. Authoritatively, he commands, “Now go to sleep, Clarke.” He closes his eyes, as if to make a point, like he’s somehow better at falling asleep than her, “I have _a lot_ of plans for us in the morning.”

 

“Some of those plans better include us being naked.”

 

“Clothing is always optional when we’re together.”

 

She smiles, or at least she feels like she does, lazy and worn, snuggling into his chest even further as she murmurs, already drifting off, “It’s a date.”

 

_._

**Author's Note:**

> COMMENT AND KUDO THANK U,, NEXT  
> and/or hmu [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell at me, prompt me or discuss whether reforestation is a reasonable solution to the potential problem of global warming


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